


The Universe Bends to Hope

by DiRoxy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, M/M, grevious injuries, happy ending I promise, heroic death, hope power overload, hopesplode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 04:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12473284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiRoxy/pseuds/DiRoxy
Summary: Dirk is wounded, fatally so, and Jake refuses to let this be true.2nd person Jake POV.





	The Universe Bends to Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeeey what up. So. I wrote this on a whim last night because I had a plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone, so I'm sorry it's not a fully fleshed out story or anything. It's just intended for feelings, really. But I hope you enjoy either way! And I'm dreadfully sorry if Jake sounds/feels out of character. He's a hard one to write and I'm still getting the hang of his voice. And his colloquialisms.

               You open your mouth and scream. It’s not one of those screams that are faked and high pitched, or sudden because someone pushed you and you stumbled over your feet off of a sidewalk. It’s not even the scream of someone who is enraged, deep and throaty. This scream is pure agony, and it burns your vocal chords and your throat and your lungs throb in time with your heartbeat. You aren’t hurt, not really, but  _ he _ is, and that is unacceptable.

           There’s a sword sticking out of his stomach, and there’s blood spreading through the maroon of his god tier pajamas. It’s spreading too fast and your mind  _ knows _ that it’s too fast, but also that there’s  _ nothing you can do _ .

           So you scream.

           And then the next thing you know, you’ve got him cradled in your arms and there’s a warm fuzz that surrounds you. Surrounds both of you. You blink and your vision is blurred, and no matter how much you swipe at your face it doesn’t get better so you just knock your glasses off and let them float in the glowing bubble around you.

           If you believe hard enough, if you  _ hope _ hard enough—

You press a hand to the exit wound of the sword—where did the sword go? Why didn’t you notice when that bastard pulled it out?—and close your eyes. It’s not like they were helping you see anyway. You navigate by touch, and you don’t even cringe at the feeling of _warm_ that gushes up between your fingers.

You just have to believe he’ll be healed, and then he will be. That’s how these dangblasted hope powers work, right? That’s what everyone’s been telling you and you’ll be damned if they fail you now when you actually intend to use them.

There’s a fluttering touch against your cheek and your eyes shoot open, watering again until your blink and the tears spill over. You’re hiccupping, you don’t know when you started to do that instead of scream but maybe you didn’t notice because it feels like there’s cotton in your ears. You tip your head into the touch, pinning his hand between your cheek and your shoulder, and he’s _smiling_ at you of all things.

“I’m glad it was me and not you,” he’s saying, and you can only shake your head and hiccup again.

“You. You big doofus. You absolute fucknut. _Why_ ,” you breathe, and even though it’s not really a question you can see those gears turning in his mind as he struggles to put together an answer. Struggles to breathe. His chest is moving in sporadic bursts and you can’t bring yourself to look away, simply move your other hand so that you can wipe away the blood that’s spilling from his lips.

“Because it would have been heroic for you,” he says after a pause that’s just a fraction too long, with a voice that’s just a little too soft.

Damn it all to hell and back to Transylvania, why aren’t these powers of yours _working_.

“It was heroic for you to take the shot you _idiot_ ,” you say, and you’re pressing harder and believing harder and either the world is getting blurrier or you’re crying harder but you’re not sure which. Either way it’s just getting in your way and you wish you could _shut it off for one blasted minute_.

Dirk actually looked surprised at that before he laughed, and the sound was bitter and all wrong in your ears. “I suppose it was.”

There’s more blood leaking out of his mouth and you wipe it off again, though really it just ends up smearing across his chin and his cheek. Something tells you that while this sort of wound is fatal, it won’t be a fast death. Could take days. Where did you learn that? Was it Dirk that told you that himself? Another random bit of trivia he managed to impart to you on your days wandering your lands.

You wish you could go back to those easier times, when all you had to worry about was which puzzle you were going to have to puzzle out. Now look at you. You’re both god tiered and _shouldn’t die_ but you had to go and play the hero, and Dirk had to come in and save you. Like always. And now he was—no. You weren’t going to say it. Not even to yourself. If you said it then it was just as likely to be true as it was that you could heal him.

You would heal him if it was the last thing you did in this miserable game. You’d give your life up for his in a heartbeat, every time. Too bad it was a little too late to tell him that.

From the look in his eyes—where did his shades go? Were they knocked away in the fight?—you think he knows. They’re all soft, and tender, and everything they’d ever shown you about his feelings in snips, when he thought you couldn’t see past the dark plastic. You hiccup again and press your forehead to his, closing your eyes.

“It’s going to be okay, Dirk. I’m going to make all of this go away,” you say, and you can practically feel it when he decides to humor you instead of believe you. His disbelief in getting better was a dark spot in the golden glow of your Hope. But that was alright, you could smother that out too. You were a page, you had limitless power when you put your mind to it. You just had to believe hard enough and it would be true.

He was your Prince and you were his Page. You could _do_ this for _him_.

“Jake,” he says, and his voice is quiet. Not quite a whisper, but definitely not his normal volume either. “I don’t think you can fix this.”

“Don’t you doubt me now Strider. Don’t you dare,” you say, and as if to prove a point you press harder on his wound—damn, it was making him wince but there was nothing you could do about that yet—and channel your glow. You _believe_ that the tissue will knit itself back together. You _believe_ that the blood will go back into his veins.

You can hear a clock ticking in the back of your mind.

Heroic. Just. Heroic. Just. Heroic. Just.

Heroic—

_Stopped_.

The ticking stops, and you feel your stomach fall. Not to your feet, nothing like that. It just drops out of your like gravity decided it was going to suddenly affect only _that_ part of your body. You reel like you’ve been slapped and start gasping.

Dirk’s chest has slowed even further, and his eyes are fluttering closed. You can’t bring yourself to touch his face and wake him. There’s something to the labored breathing that tells your basic instincts that he just needs to sleep. To rest. To take some recovery time because of _course_ he’s going to recover from this. There’s no way he would just _leave_ you here without him.

Jake and Dirk, inseparable like always.

Except for when you pushed Dirk away so thoroughly that the man ended up snapping at you in a well-deserved rant during that crazed, sugar rush.

No. Those had been different circumstances entirely. That wasn’t Dirk _leaving_ _you alone in the universe_. Which he wouldn’t do. Ever. For the record.

He just needed to rest.

You suck in a deep breath and gnaw on the inside of your mouth. It’s raw and bleeding but it helps you focus. You put your glasses back on with a shaking hand and take a look over his face again. He looks like he’s sleeping. Maybe if you just believe that he’s sleeping you can continue to deny what’s happening.

You can slow time down in this bubble. Keep him with you. Stop the clock from exacting its decision on him. As long as he stays in this bubble everything will be fine!

“See, I told you ol’ pal, I was going to fix this. And I did,” you say, and you sound hysterical to your own ears. Ouch. Might want to tone that down a bit.

Inevitability is a dark spot against the surface of your hope bubble and you shoot it a betrayed look. You weren’t going to let this _happen_. Not because of _you._ Not _again_. How many times had Dirk taken a shot for you and only barely scraped out of it being a heroic death because _Dave_ was there to fix the timeline.

You had taken Dirk’s life, his future, and twisted it to suit your needs, and then tossed him aside because of _your issues_. He _deserved more_.

But fuck, you didn’t know how to fix this.

_“You know how to fix this, you just don’t know how to do it.”_

You jump and spin, and your pistols are in your hands before you’ve even had a conscious thought about taking them out of your sylladex. But it’s not Caliborn standing there. He can’t get through your hope bubble now that you think about it, how silly of you. Instead, it’s a projection of Dirk.

“Brain Ghost Dirk.” Your tongue feels numb and heavy in your mouth, and it still stings with the taste of your own blood.

_“You gotta stop the clock.”_

“The clock is already stopped, mate, how exactly do you propose I do _that_?” you ask, and you’re sure that was more snippy than you had intended.

_“I don’t know, you’re the hope guy. Just make it not land on heroic. You can’t_ believe _his wounds healed because you can see them in front of you and he doesn’t believe you can do it either. Which means you need to find a different way. Obviously. Back up plans exist for a reason, Jake.”_

“And how in the devil’s _blazing_ seven hells do you expect me to make the _cosmic clock_ that _decides our fates_ not land on Heroic?” you shoot back.

_“Again, you’re the hope guy, not me.”_

“Christ almighty on a stick, you are the least helpful person I’ve encountered in ages!”

_“And yet here I am, in your time of need, because you needed someone to listen to that wasn’t yourself panicking,”_ he says flatly, and your left eye twitches minutely.

He was right. You know he was right. He always shows up when you need him, just like Dirk himself, and it does plenty to take some of the strain off of your shoulders. But hell, it’s worth a shot, and you’ll be plum fucked if you don’t try _something._ Because you can feel Dirk’s breaths getting shallower with each passing second, and the pauses between each one is getting longer and longer, and if you focus too hard on that you’re going to actually have a panic attack.

“Right. Alright. Believe in the clock changing. Easy enough, right?” you ask. You look up to meet his eyes and if asked, would vehemently deny the fact that your voice was shaking.

_“Right,”_ he answers, and the firmness of it is enough to settle what little nerves you had left about this.

So you grope out with your powers, finding that woolly spool deep inside of you that represented pure Hope, and you yank on a bundle of it. It spins out and stretches when you pull, and you’re glowing even more now. You close your eyes like it’ll help you focus and laugh without really thinking about it. “Tally-ho then.”

The clock feels intangible, even though you could hear it clearly ticking not that long ago. But you’ll be damned if you give up now, and so you push against that intangibility until with a _pop_ it gives under your demands. And like the inconspicuous piece of shit it _isn’t_ the clock looms before you with its hand pointing clearly to Heroic.

You reach out with your glowing finger tips and you manhandle the hand to point to the middle. Neither Heroic, nor Just, and it’s done with an effort that makes your whole body burn. But you _believe_ it to be this way, and _it shall be so_.

With a flare of light that you have to turn away from, shielding your eyes, the clock accepts your will over the will of the games programming, and you can feel the ripples of it spreading out around you. You don’t know how this is going to affect things in the future, but you don’t _care_. Because this means you succeeded, and Dirk _won’t die._

You gasp, and then you’re slammed back into your own body inside the hope bubble, and you watch as Dirk begins to glow with magenta light and stands back up on his own two feet. Those glasses are back on faster than you can blink, but even then you can read the way he looks utterly floored at what you’ve done. The laughter that escapes you sputters and is broken by the renewed sobs you’re letting out, and you fling yourself at him. You wrap him in your arms and you hold tight, because you’re never letting him go again.

“No more heroic actions, from either of us,” you say, and he nods stiffly against your shoulder. You can tell it’ll take a bit for what just happened to click, but for now you have a small green alien to beat the ever-loving tar out of. “We can talk about it. Later.”

He nods again—this time it’s smoother—and has his katana in hand in the next breath. You draw your pistols once more and flip them in your hands. Between one breath and the next, the hope bubble dissolves, and you only smirk at the look of stunned shock on Caliborn’s face. “Tally-ho!”


End file.
